


The Fleeting Blossom

by NotATorontonian (TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns)



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Childbirth, Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Couple, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28850874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeAndLiesOfFerns/pseuds/NotATorontonian
Summary: Tom and Fanny welcome their youngest daughter to the world. They celebrate their blossoming family.
Relationships: Tom Bertram/Fanny Price
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	The Fleeting Blossom

A few days had passed since the birth of the newest addition to their blossoming family, their lovely little daughter, and Tom found himself doing everything in his power to ensure that Fanny and the child were treated with the upmost care and compassion.

Once the birthing mother was well enough to receive visitors, the couple introduced little baby to Thomas. He was a little over six years old, their oldest son and the future heir of the manor. He had the black head of hair characteristic of their family line, a dimpled smile and the charisma of his father, which endeared him to his mother so, while serving as a prophecy child to the still-young baronet.

After being told that his Mama had given birth, the boy was practically giddy with excitement, expressing how much he longed to meet his little sister. The day after the birth, Thomas joined his father in visiting Fanny and the child.

With Tom’s support and guidance, he was able to hold the baby for a few moments, though he had to leave once Fanny started to show signs of exhaustion. To allow his wife the chance to recover, the baronet spent a couple of nights in the closest bedroom to their own, which served as his mother’s private sitting room in days of old, often visiting her in the night before retiring to ensure that everything was well.

After a couple of nights, Tom returned to their quarters, doting on Fanny and the infant like they were made of porcelain. He would assist with looking after the baby, and would not often be seen without her in his arms, softly cradling her as she drifts off to sleep.

Whenever Fanny was awake, she would watch him interact with their daughter. He would tell the little girl an abundance of stories about the everyday happenings of the property and making outlandish promises of wealth and happiness. As the mother found herself drifting into a peaceful slumber, she could hear him cooing softly to the child as she stirs gently in his arms, a joyful smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

As the third day turns into evening, and their eldest is safely tucked away in bed, Tom returns to the quarters that he shares with the Lady Bertram. By the time that he retires to their chambers, Fanny has already fallen into a deep slumber, her sleeping form buried between the covers.

She moves slightly, her long chestnut brown curls cascading down her back, slowly falling onto her face and obscuring her eyes. Tom watches her for a moment, an adoring smile tugging at the corner of his lips, before he starts to prepare himself for bed. After a couple of minutes, he climbs in beside her, his arms instinctively wrapping themselves around her waist. He holds her like that for a moment, but it is not long until he himself drifts into unconsciousness.

A crackle of thunder causes Tom to rouse from his sleep. The room is very dark, though he can see Fanny’s silhouette, illuminated by the glow of the waning moon. Her arm is draped protectively across her torso, her satin nightdress ghosting over her now slender frame.

He smiles at the sight, extending his arm in the direction of his wife as he shuffles closer, placing a gentle hand on her waist; he inclines his head towards her, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Sleep well, my love.” It was the small wish.

He presses a tender kiss to her temple, but as his lips grace her skin, he is met with an extreme heat. He pulls back, his eyes widening in alarm as he rests his hand upon her forehead; it is incredibly warm to the touch, beads of sweat clinging to her brows.

“Fanny?” The man calls, trying to dowse unsuccessfully a response out of her.

He carefully clasps her shoulder, turning her over onto her back. Her face has drained of colour, her once rosy lips turning purple at the corners. He hastily pulls the covers back from over her, tugging at the sleeves of her nightdress until they expose her shoulders. He cups her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin through his fingertips; he runs his thumb across her bottom lip, his voice desperate and unyielding.

“Fanny!” He places a supportive hand underneath her head, his fingers entangling in her hair. “I need you to wake up, sweetheart. Please, I…”

He looks around their chambers, his eyes darting from one corner to another before fixating on the clock; it is less than two hours since the pair bid goodnight, and at least an hour until the nurse is set to check on their daughter.

Unaware as to whether anyone would hear, Tom removes himself from the covers, making quick work of the distance between their marriage bed and the corridor. He throws the door open, bearing no mind to his state of dress before calling a familiar name, the intonation in his voice rising as he edges further into the corridor, his expression panicked and full of utter dread.

“Susan!” He shouts, and then once more, “Susan! Come quick!”

He glances around, trying to listen out for any sign of movement, but to no avail. The baronet calls for his sister-in-law thrice over, his pitch reaching an all-time high, but his plea falls on deaf ears.

A ragged breath from the bedroom draws his attention; Fanny’s fingers begin to twitch, weakly grasping at the covers as they lay discarded at her waist.

“Tom…” She tries to bring the blanket closer, but she is too weak. Her arm begins to buckle, and it is not long before she has no choice but to let go, her hand falling limply back onto the mattress. “I…I am not feeling too well.”

He returns to her bedside, taking hold of her hand. He gives it a comforting squeeze, greeting her with a smile of adoration.

“I know, my love.” He reaches forward, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “But you will be well soon. I will do whatever I can to make sure of it.”

“Where is…” She inhales sharply, her rattled breath catching in her throat. “Where is Maria?”

“She is safe, sweetheart.” He rests his hand upon her cheek, his fingers entangling in her hair. “You do not need to concern yourself with that right now. I will take care of her.”

“But what if she is not well either?” The woman argued with an undertone of motherly panic. “We… We need to know whether…”

“We will. We will see to it all.” His eyes begin to glisten, a single tear falling onto his cheek. “However, you are my priority right now, Fanny. If our daughter has also taken ill, then we are sure to know about it.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, nodding weakly in acknowledgment, but as she does so, her body begins to grow limp, her head slowly falling back into Tom’s arms.

“Fanny?” He strokes her cheek tenderly, his fingertips ghosting the skin of her forehead as he moves her hair away from her face. “Do you hear me?”

He calls out to her once more, but after he is met with no response, he shifts himself off the bed, looping his arms around Fanny’s form, her head tucked safely into the crook of his neck. He holds her close to his chest, pressing a hasty kiss to her forehead before carrying her out of their room and into the hallway.

Tom heads east down the corridor, trying hard to avoid the prying eyes of their staff as he navigates his way through the manor. As he begins to hear the shallowness of her breath, he quickens his pace, taking a detour through the parlour before arriving in the hallway adjacent to the midwife’s, Mrs. Grant, chambers.

He hurries toward the door, loudly rapping on the wooden frame. Unsure as to whether he has been heard, he calls out to her, his words growing more frantic and worrisome with every breath.

“MRS. GRANT?!” He reaches forward, being sure not to disturb his wife as he knocks on the door a second time, this time louder than before. “Wake up! I need help!”

He waits patiently, listening for any sign of life from the other side, though it is not long before he finds himself looking back at a familiar figure. She is dressed in her night clothes, her shoulders covered with a robe of silk, intricately decorated with threaded floral designs.

“Yes, Sir Thomas?” The aged woman responds with a sleepy and calm tone.

“Please, Mrs. Grant.” He glances down the hallway, back to where his wife was convalescing, his usually pleasant demeanour replaced with one of panic and anxiousness. “It’s Fanny. Please, I… I don’t know what to do!”

The woman passes through him in a serious and business fashion and the baronet follows closely behind.

When they reach the bedroom, the sick woman has not moved an inch since she was left alone. Tom sits next to his wife and Mrs. Grant kneels beside him, resting her hand upon Fanny’s forehead. Soon after, she looks up at him, her worrisome gaze meeting his own for only a moment before fixating her attention back on Fanny.

“How long has she been like this?” The midwife questions, a severe expression gracing her features.

“I don’t know! She was perfectly fine when we said goodnight.” He carefully positions her head, gently placing it on his knee, his fingers interlacing in her full hair. “Then I wake up with a thunder, and she was…”

“She never mentioned that she was feeling unwell?” The healer enquires once again. “Have you noticed anything amiss tonight?”

Tom hesitates for a moment, thinking back to the events of that evening.

“She… She mentioned that she was feeling a little light-headed at dinner, but we put it down to exhaustion. Susan, she… She told Fanny and I that it was common to feel that way after delivery.”

“Your sister-in-law is correct in that assessment, but it should never present itself like this.” She holds her hand against Fanny’s forehead, instinctively pulling back as she is startled by the heat. “By God! I have never known someone to radiate so much heat.”

“What do we do?” Tom looks up at Mrs. Grant, a hint of foolish hopefulness in his gaze. “Is there any way that we can cool her down?’

“We will need a damp cloth.” She reaches forward, forcing Fanny’s hair away from her face. “One that has been submerged in cold water; that and a couple of towels.’

The man stands up. “I will go to fetch them.”

“You are not going anywhere.” She tugs at his arm, causing him to fall back into the position he was in before. “You need to be here for Fanny.”

Mrs. Grant rises to her feet, brushing the creases from her nightdress before turning her attention back to Tom. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Take her into my chambers. I will retrieve what we need.” She commanded with the serious tone that the situation seemed to demand. “All I ask of you is that you tend to your wife.”

“Are you sure there is nothing that I can do?” He glances up at her, and Mrs. Grant can sense the vulnerability in his words. “I must be able to do more than just sit around and wait!”

“Fanny has taken ill, Sir.” She hesitates for a moment, her breath hitching in her throat as she catches sight of the countess, her own breathing becoming more ragged and raspier. “The best thing that you can do for her right now is to keep her company, to let her know that you are with her.”

She begins to take her leave, her footsteps sending echoes down the empty halls as she makes her way to the drawing room.

“I will find a servant and ask them to send for the Doctor, you just need to focus on ensuring that Fanny is comfortable.”

Her next words are spoken hastily over her shoulder, as if a begotten command.

“And try _not_ to cover her body!”

* * *

A couple of hours pass, and Tom finds himself pacing around Mrs. Grant’s quarters, waiting for confirmation as to the cause of Fanny’s sickness. Though he has zoned out entirely, he can hear brief instances of conversation, the concern in Mrs. Grant’s voice evident in the intonation of her tone as she converses with the doctor, who tends to Fanny’s bedside.

“So what do you think it could be?” Mrs. Grant runs an anxious hand down the front of her skirt, as if trying to conceal her worried state from the man in the room with her. “Perhaps some type of Flu, or…”

“No.” The doctor responds in haste, shaking his head. “Fanny has been confined to her room for the past couple of days, and those that have been in contact with her are well.”

“Then what is it?” The midwife asks.

The doctor exhales slowly, somewhat preparing himself for the deliverance of his thoughts.

“Her symptoms seem to indicate an illness that has been brought on by the birth of the child.” He turns to Mrs. Grant, his expression stolen and forlorn. “You told me that there were a few complications during the birth?’

“Why, yes.” She sits down on the bed beside Fanny, placing a newly damp flannel to her forehead. “But for women with Fanny’s frail stature, it is not uncommon to have issues with the delivery.”

The doctor wanders back over to the bed; he places his hand on her cheek, studying her face for any more signs of abnormality.

When he speaks again, his voice is firm, yet indented with curiosity. “Besides the rise in temperature, has she displayed any other signs of ill health? A headache, or nausea, perhaps?”

“She said that she felt a little light-headed shortly after dinner, and I did notice that she had not been eating as often as she should.” Tom was the one to respond.

“And these symptoms started this evening?” The medic questions. “There have been no other indications until tonight?”

Tom shakes his head, his eyes tired. The doctor looks down at Fanny’s hand; he gently clasps it in his own, turning it over in his palm. Her skin is clammy, the insides of her wrists slowly bruising.

‘Well?’ Mrs. Grant asks once more. “Do you have an idea as to what it could be?”

The doctor ignores the old woman. “How long ago was the child born?”

“Three days.” She responds.

“I thought so.” He carefully releases her hand, turning his attention back to Tom, who is now stood at the foot of the bed. His expression is laden with worry, his eyes slowly welling with tears of his own.

The doctor rises from his position, taking a few steps away from the bed as if to make himself more visible to those around him. “Given the symptoms, and the speed that they have overcome her, I’m afraid that there is only one thing that it could be.”

Mrs. Grant shakes her head in disbelief. “Surely not…”

He nods. At the bleak confirmation, Mrs. Grant gasps in suddenness, her breath hitching slightly as she tries to regain her composure.

Tom can feel his chest beginning to tighten, the look of horror and disdain on Mrs. Grant’s face a telling sign that the diagnosis was one that he did not want to hear. He looks at the doctor, folding his arms tightly across his chest, as if trying to keep himself from falling apart.

“What is it?” Tom speaks with sternness, his hopeful demeanour dissipating into one of concern and evidently fear. “What is wrong with my wife?”

The doctor sighs, reaching into his breast pocket; he removes a clean handkerchief from his pocket, reaching over to wipe away the beads of sweat on her forehead. Once he is finished, he places the handkerchief beside her pillow, a despondent sigh escaping him.

“The sweating… The rise in body temperature… Headaches...” He looks up at Tom with a mournful gaze. “‘I am afraid that Lady Bertram is most likely suffering the onset of Puerperal Fever, though to you it is probably known by another name.”

“Childbed Fever.” The midwife provides, breathy.

Tom stumbles backwards suddenly, his brows furrowed in confusion as he regards the doctor’s diagnosis.

“But that… That cannot be…” He suddenly turns his attention to Mrs. Grant, who sits motionless beside Fanny, her head bowed in anguish. “You… You told me that she was well!”

“And she was!” Her breath catches, her sorrow evident in her voice as she looks down at her hands, as if trying desperately to avoid the hurt in his gaze. “She was as healthy as she could be!”

“I am afraid that good health after birth is a normal occurrence with a fever such as this.” he reaches for her wrist, running his fingertips along the inside of her arm as he searches for her pulse; it is very weak. “It is a sneaky illness, and we are not yet confident on its root causes.”

Tom turns to the doctor with suddenness, his feet carrying himself forward as he edges closer to Fanny, resting just a couple of steps away from her bedside.

“Will she recover?” He looks at him with uncertainty, his voice taking a somewhat hopeful tone. “It… It has been known for young women to recover from this… And with everything that current medicine has to offer… We are gentry, not moles!”

“Forgive me, Sir.” the Doctor interjects, holding up his hand as if to stop him from continuing, “With Lady Bertram, that shan’t be the case.”

“But there is still a chance!” The baronet pauses for a moment, trying to catch his breath and order his thoughts. “Surely there is something, anything, that… That you can do. You are one of the finest doctors that this country has to offer! If the issue is money, I have more than enough to provide. I can give you anything you desire, just save my wife!”

‘I’m sorry.” He shakes his head sombrely, gently lowering Fanny’s arm back onto the covers. “There is nothing that can be done. I advise you to put some spirit under her tongue, to ease her pain and make her more comfortable, but that is… I can do no more than that.”

“So that is it?” He retorts, his words contorted with anger and pain. “We will do absolutely nothing? We are just going to sit here and let her _die_?!”

He gazes down at her, smiling sadly as he tries to memorize the features of her face; he reaches a hand towards her, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

He remains silent for a moment before he speaks, his voice no louder than a hushed whisper. “Please. I cannot lose her. Take anything, but don’t take her. Please…”

“Sir Bertram.” The midwife goes to stand beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “All will be well in the end. Fanny is a resilient woman, and would not leave a little girl orphaned. If anyone can overcome this, it is her.”

“I am afraid not.”

The pair turn sharply to face the doctor, their mouths slightly agape at his exclamation.

They speak in unison, their voices quiet and laden with disbelief.

“What?”

“The chances of Fanny succumbing to the fever are…” He sighs defeated, running a sorrowful hand across his forehead. “Significantly higher than the possibility of there being a swift recovery.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” The midwife barks.

Tom shifts his attention back to the Doctor, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you saying?”

“I think we should prepare ourselves in the case that our worst fears come to pass. We should be considering of her last rites and wishes.” He looks down at the gentry woman, her sickly form causing him to process the grimness of their reality. “Should Lady Bertram remain like this for longer than a few hours…”

The doctor glances back at Tom, his gaze softening as he notices his resolve beginning to falter.

“I am afraid she may not survive to see tomorrow.”


End file.
